


After He's Suffered

by SouthernLynxx



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Brief Gore, Chapter 4: Saint Denis (Red Dead Redemption 2), Emotional Hurt, Found Family, Gen, Good Parent Hosea Matthews, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hurt Arthur Morgan, I basically take canon-suffering and try and make it worse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Micah Bell Being an Asshole, Past Rape/Non-con, Protective John Marston, Psychological Trauma, Spoilers, Vomiting, can be read as pre-john/arthur, non-graphic, random encounter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:14:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27742828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernLynxx/pseuds/SouthernLynxx
Summary: “I was there, y’know,” he says thoughtfully. Arthur’s brow furrows, a part of him really wishing John had taken what he’d said about the enigmatic bullshit in Valentine to heart. “When Charles brought you in,” John clarifies, and Arthur frowns, because he couldn’t remember seeing John, or hearing him, at least, because he hadn’t been able to see very much of anyone. “I know something ain’t right, Arthur.”
Relationships: John Marston & Arthur Morgan
Comments: 8
Kudos: 89





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Also known as the: Arthur 'I'm Fine' Morgan fic. I felt there was _a lot_ of emotional aspects of Arthur's chance encounter with Sonny that couldn't really be explored in the game, so I basically wanted to delve into that potential suffering to appease that dark little part of myself that wasn't satisfied by the brief cutscene we got after the fact. 
> 
> Title comes from the full quote “The fool knows after he’s suffered.” by Hesiod.

It's the mist-like touch of gentle rain that first stirs him from the dark and empty chasm of unconsciousness. It shrouds Arthur’s body like a heavy blanket, agitating the dull throb in his shoulders as he stirs. The swampy earth gives beneath him, squelching between his fingers and into his mouth as he tries to lift his head.

“Wh-whu…” 

He bites back a groan when an agonising pain compresses his skull, forcing him to still until the wave passes. Inhaling deeply through his nose, grimacing at the stench of putrid mud and stagnant water, Arthur tries to claw together enough coherency to make out his surroundings. The quiet patter of the rain against the trees accompanies the shrill whine of the cicadas, and the occasional croak of a toad adds to the dense, unpleasant ambience. 

Something warm and firm suddenly presses against his shoulder and Arthur’s breath catches. He shoves the offending pressure away with a muddy hand and a low hiss of discomfort, making the great black shire withdraw its muzzle with an aggrieved snort of hot breath for his trouble. It's with an almost palpable relief that Arthur quickly hushes it.

“Sorry -’m sorry boy,” he rumbles between wounded breaths, attempting to force himself upright with another groan as pain lances its way across his body. He manages to peer open his one good eye, the other long since swollen shut, but it does little to help him figure out where he is. There’s barely any light to be seen, and any distant lantern or moonlight was easily smothered by the thick fog that enveloped the swamp.

“C’mon boy, help me,” Arthur breathes as he feels the horse draw close again, allowing him to blindly grab hold of the halter. With the aid of Fen, Arthur is able to drag himself to his feet, but it’s only his desperate grip on the saddle horn that stops him from crumpling back to the dirt when a white hot spear of agony sears its way up his spine. 

Pressing his forehead against Fen’s shoulder with his legs braced, Arthur can only grit his teeth with a dismayed, _‘Oh my lord’_ as he waits out the worst of it. His mind is still thick with pain and confusion, but he has the presence of mind to know this isn't where he’d fallen. Where he’d...been struck?  
  
He reaches for the back of his head, fingers trembling with cold as he gently feels out the tender area. He finds the point of impact with ease, the surrounding hair clumped and tacky with blood and the split skin rough with the beginnings of a scab beneath his fingers.

“Shit.” 

He releases a fortifying breath and firms his grip on the saddle. “Take me home, boy,” he grunts, pulling himself with difficulty onto the beast’s back. “Let’s go,” he urges, skin prickling with growing unease the longer he finds himself shrouded in these godforsaken swamplands. 

Fen obeys without further prompting, his heavy stride softened by the pulpous mire as he carries them from the heart of the swamp towards the decaying edifice of Shady Belle. 

The ride is one of the shortest yet most painful Arthur can remember enduring, and it’s with a humourless chuckle he realises he’d thought the very same about his ride back from Colm’s trap not two months ago. But, back then, Arthur had had the solace of unconsciousness through the majority of that long, desolate journey. 

Now...now Arthur has to force himself not to further contemplate the black spots in his memory and all the places he ached and burned. The way pain encased his chest and seemed to ricochet off each rib in turn. The agonising spasms down his spine which cramped his muscles and settled somewhere deep and dark in the pit of Arthur’s stomach, bringing bile to his throat and a sick sense of violation he’d never known before.

He buries his face into the coarse hair of Fen’s mane, feeling exhaustion dig deep into his bones and thankfully dull the edges of his turmoil. His thoughts feel slow and sluggish, but even still he struggles to ignore the depths of the twisting rabbit warren a sickly-fascinated part of his mind seemed drawn to wander. 

It’s only on the fringes of his waning attention that Arthur registers the voice in the dark that calls out to him. 

“Who’s there?” 

Arthur’s brow furrows briefly before he realises with some relief that they’re already approaching their latest camp, and he gives Fen’s neck a weak pat in thanks. He tries to grunt out his usual response but his voice comes out rough and slurred, and Arthur vaguely wonders if the blow to his head had done more damage than he’d first thought. 

Fen draws to a stop, head tossing defensively as Charles emerges from the nearby foliage, gun aimed at Arthur’s chest. 

“Who are- Arthur?” His name escapes Charles with more urgency than Arthur expects, and he wonders how bad he must look to receive such a reaction from Charles of all people, who was near unshakeable at the best of times.

“‘M fine,” he grunts, though it comes out more of a rasp as Charles strides forward and takes hold of the reins under Fen’s chin. 

“Fine? Have you seen yourself?” Charles responds, his level tone spiked with only the slightest bite to show his worry, and Arthur can’t be bothered to argue Charles away as the man leads them up the driveway towards camp. 

“You don’t have to walk me in, Charles,” he insists, but their arrival has already brought several people to the front of the house. The campfire throws ample light over their figures, but Arthur would be hard pressed to distinguish them if it weren’t for the clamour of hushed, curious voices.

Charles brings Fen to a halt, further into camp than any of the steeds would usually be permitted. The campfire must finally cast Arthur in enough light to be seen properly when they’re met with several concerned gasps and hushed curses.

He ignores the squabble with a tight-lipped scowl, wanting nothing more than to sequester himself in a quiet spot and lick his wounds in peace. He needs out from beneath their prying eyes, away from the intrusive questions he isn’t willing to answer. 

“’m fine,” he repeats with more force, pulling his foot from one of the stirrups. It’s only his grip on the saddle that once again stops him from collapsing to the dirt when he dismounts more heavily than intended, the subsequent burst of pain leaving his mind blank, save for a shrill, piercing ring.

Inhaling a deep shuddery breath, Arthur shrugs off the hand that touches his back and ignores the way his vision wavers. 

“ _‘m fine,”_ he growls, and is met with an irritated sigh from Charles. 

“Well if it isn’t the Big Dog himself. Gone and had a bit of a tussle in the mud, did we?” an unsavoury, oil-slicked voice cuts in through the concerned hum. Arthur stiffens, drawing back his shoulders despite their throb of protest. 

His lip curls back in a grimace. “Not now, Micah,” he warns, low and final. He’s exhausted, can feel his knees starting to tremble with the simple effort of staying upright, but he would rather choke down some oleander than let Micah see him falter.

He makes to shove past, but Micah steps gaily backwards, arms up in a gesture of surrender. He can’t rightly see Micah’s sneer, but he can hear it clear as day as he scoffs. “Careful, Morgan, right now you ain’t lookin’ so tough.”

Arthur stops, the crackle of the fire and murmur of voices giving way to an unsettling quiet. An odd, lilting voice slithers through his mind like a snake through the thick marsh fog.

**_See, friendship ain’t so tough...and nei th e r i s y o u..._ **

There’s no warning as Arthur doubles over and vomits at their feet, his stomach emptying bile and its meagre contents. His only consolation to the whole pathetic display is Micah’s bark of shock and disgust as he fails to leap back in time to prevent his boots being splashed. 

Arthur spits out the last of it as two sets of hands grab him by the arms, likely the only thing preventing him from toppling face first to the floor. He can feel every pair of eyes on him as he’s taken under either arm and led into the house.

* * *

Arthur doesn’t remember being put to bed, though he recalls snatches of the process of getting there. Lenny and Kieran struggling to get him up the staircase that wasn’t built to accommodate three grown men at once. Him refusing to let Hosea or Miss Grimshaw within three feet of him with the intention to look him over. Having a blanket to protect his bedsheets shoved against his chest before he could close his door on them both since he was ‘intent to sleep like a pig in a sty’ according to the surly arbiter.

That’s how he wakes; caked in filth atop a blanket on his cot, his head feeling like it had taken a hit from a railway hammer and his body thrumming with a myriad of unpleasant sensations he couldn’t stomach to work through.

He groans as the unforgiving sun floods his room, the muted sounds of camp carrying from the front of the house through the broken window. 

It all seems so normal, and yet something feels so profoundly wrong. 

The mud that has dried thick and stiff on his skin and clothes itches terribly, pulling at the hairs on his arms and chest. But beneath that, beneath the blood and the grime and the itchiness, there’s a sickly sensation that crawls over his skin, the phantom touches of a dream, or a memory, that drifts just beyond his reach.

With great difficulty and no shortage of pained grunts, Arthur manages to leverage himself upright, the blanket falling away from his back with flakes of dirt. He takes a moment simply to sit, his boots planted on the floor with his elbows resting on his thighs, hunched over until a headache begins to thrum behind his eyes and press against his temples. 

He staggers to his feet, catching himself on the nearby table to stop him from dropping to his knees as a long pained hiss escapes him, his stomach falling away altogether. 

“No…” he breathes, without meaning to speak at all. His grip on the table tightens, nails digging into the rough weather-exposed wood to the point of pain, but it does little to falter his racing mind. _“No!”_

He doesn’t know whether to be angry or distraught, but a bottle finds its way into his hands and he throws it with enough force that it shatters anyway, spraying gin across the mould-speckled walls. He watches the liquid trickle down the off-colour paint, chest heaving as he feels the fight and the anger bleed out of him, leaving nothing but a sense of devastation behind.

“Arthur?” 

A soft knock on his door accompanies the troubled voice. He sighs, hesitating only a moment before he approaches the door and cracks it open. Abigail starts at the sight of him, but her voice remains admirably level when she asks “Is everything alright?” 

He can’t meet her eyes and instead focuses on a point just over her shoulder as he nods minutely.

“‘M fine.”  
  
God, how many times had he said that now? It sounded so familiar but wrong on his tongue. Abigail doesn’t seem anymore convinced by his response than Arthur, but she sighs in resignation, a familiar sound that would have made him smile at any other time.

“Ok, if you’re sure. I won’t bother you then.” She lingers for just a second longer before crossing the landing towards the stairs. Arthur watches her go, about to close the door when a thought occurs to him.

“Abigail.”  
  
The woman stops on the top step, looking at him expectantly. 

“Could I get a bucket of water, to wash?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.” 

A beat, then Arthur closes his door.

**\---**

Arthur sits on the edge of his bed in silence until there’s the creak of footsteps outside his door again. Abigail, he assumes, knocks a few times before leaving as swiftly as she’d come, and he’s never been more grateful for her astute nature to know when and when not to make a fuss. 

Rising stiffly from the bed, Arthur opens his door to an empty landing, a trail of droplets speckling the floor and a bucket of frigid water just within reach. Taking hold of the handle, he places the bucket in the middle of the bedroom and closes the door securely behind him. 

His gun belt gets discarded with a dull thud against the floor and he eases his suspenders from his shoulders. As quickly as he dares, Arthur works open the buttons of his shirt and carefully peels it from his chest, grimacing as the fabric comes away from cuts and scratches and clumps of dirt crusted to his body hair. He drops it to the side and begins to work on his boots, needing to place a supporting hand against the cabinet for balance as he wriggles off each one. Lastly, his hands come to rest at the ties of his work pants. Blowing out a breath like an agitated horse, he presses forward, loosening the fabric and gingerly extricating himself while keeping his jaw clenched tight. When he’s finally free, Arthur takes a moment to breathe deeply, relieved he doesn’t have to wrestle with a union suit as he retrieves his washcloth and bar of soap. 

Even as he submerges the cloth in the water, Arthur already knows he can’t make himself inspect the damage too closely. He’s too exhausted, too worn down to let the relentless thoughts drag him further into his own mind.

Flinching minutely at the cold, Arthur starts with his face, sponging away the smeared dirt and feeling out the swollen skin around his eye. He then works down his chest, muddy water running thin rivulets down the dips and slopes of his stomach and legs as he discovers new wounds. It's mostly scratches, with the exception of the long scabbed line across his ribs from a brush with a blade, and the dark contusions that blossom across his sides, some peppering the meat between his neck and shoulder. They all seem almost normal, a reasonable account of his run-in with the eerie Night Folk who prowled the marshes. Yet he can’t ignore the two bruises that encircle his wrists, the tormenting imprint of shackles that have Arthur sucking in a harsh breath and thrusting the cloth back into the water.

He keeps his mind filled with dissonant whispers and distractions as he scrubs his lower half; scrubs himself until there’s no more dirt to find, and scrubs more still until his worn washcloth feels abrasive against his skin. 

Dropping to his knees without giving any mind to the pain it incites, Arthur lets the wash cloth fall to the floor as he cups his hands in the murky water. It drips between his fingers and down his wrists as he splashes it over himself, running his fingers through his hair and absently losing the last remnants of dirt. 

He stares down into the rippling surface within the bucket, but has to look away from the sorry sight reflecting back.

* * *

He has responsibilities to carry out, a role to fulfil, and, less importantly, a reputation to maintain, but that doesn’t liberate Arthur from his self-imposed isolation over the course of the next day. It’s a small relief that no one seems inclined to disturb him, but he knows he’s pushed his luck too far when he catches Abigail on the landing for the fourth time that day.

“Abigail.”

The woman stops with a barely concealed look of irritation as she turns to face what little she could see of the outlaw through the gap in his door. 

“Yes?”

He frowns at the edge to her voice, but presses forward. “Can I get-”

“Let me guess, a bucket of water? ‘Cause I ain’t got enough to manage ‘round here without seeing to the comforts of his highness.”

The words are harsh, but fair. 

“You’re right, ‘course. Sorry for troublin’ you,” he murmurs apologetically. Abigail’s expression mellows at the tone.

“Arthur, wait.”

He stops just before closing the door, regarding her cautiously through the gap. She chews her lip before fixing him with an unreadable expression. 

“You’ve been acting mighty strange since you got back. Is everything alright?”

Arthur doesn’t know what to say to her, and harbours the slightest fear that if he tries to claim he’s fine again the woman will likely try and beat him, with or without a door in her way. 

Arthur sighs, a sound that’s weary to his own ears. “I’ll be alright. Just...not been feelin’ myself.” 

He's still incapable of meeting her eye, even less so now with the intense, question way she stares at him. He doesn’t know what she sees in the end, but any remaining hardness in her expression softens. 

“Alright Arthur,” Abigail relents, “You sit tight.” Offering him a small smile, she turns and heads back down the stairs.

**\---**

Nothing is ever said again on the matter, but each time Arthur places the latest bucket of ‘dirty’ water outside his door, another bucket of fresh water is quick to replace it. On one such occasion he happens to catch Tilly making the exchange, and the time after that he finds a fresh new bar of soap sitting on the banister. It’s a gesture Arthur greatly appreciates, since the bar of soap that has lasted him six months, and was meant to last six months more, has already been washed away to fragments.

Yet even though there seems to be some form of understanding, and plates of stew are just as dutifully left outside his room, he knows he can’t hide forever under the pretense of licking his wounds. 

So it’s with an unfamiliar reluctance sitting heavy in his stomach that Arthur finally emerges. He makes sure to shave and dress in clothes as clean as they got in their way of living, but Arthur knows it will do little to draw attention away from the grim turn to his lips and his ashen pallor. And while the swelling had been quick to go down, his black eye still retained a mottled purple hue, a stark reminder to anyone who might look at him that something had gone awry that night.

“Well, look who it is!” Hosea’s voice chimes as Arthur slips out the front door. He finds the elder man sitting on a wooden chair to his left, reading in the shade of the porch. “How’re you doing, son?”

Arthur grunts, and Hosea puts his book down on his lap. “I know we all have moments of regression, Arthur, but we did instill a decent vocabulary in you, even if you don’t like to use it.” He’s smiling despite the chiding, but there’s a look of concern as he adds: “I haven’t seen you out of your room since you got back, I was worried you died in there and we were none the wiser.”

“Naw, you don’t have to worry about me, Hosea” Arthur assures, diverting his gaze as he scratches his jaw. He can see Karen and Tilly in the gazebo, and Kieran moving among the horses further afield. “I’m fine-”

“So I’ve heard,” Hosea interjects, raising a brow as Arthur’s snort and waves the older man off. 

“And I _am_ ,” he insists with a gruff finality as Hosea shakes his head in disbelief. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a jar of vinegar I need to sweeten up,” he rumbles, gesturing to the bundle of dirt-caked clothing he held against his hip.

Hosea’s “Good luck!” echoes after him as he walks the narrow path between Pearson’s chuckwagon and the house, a purely unconscious choice that just so happened to avoid passing the main campfire. He tips the brim of his hat down further over his eyes as he comes out near the wagons where he could often find Mary-Beth lost in one of her books and Miss Grimshaw not far away. 

He spots the woman in question rifling through one of the numerous crates stacked around the area, and he approaches with a quiet clearing of his throat. Susan Grimshaw straightens at the sound, sharp eyes falling on Arthur with little more than a raised eyebrow.

“Well, Mr Morgan, how nice of you to finally join us,” she says with her familiar pointed inflection, but the underlying note of relief softens any accusation. 

“Miss Grimshaw,” he nods. “Thank you, for the blanket. If it ain’t a bother, I…” he trails off, gesturing to said blanket and the equally filthy clothing bundled with it. 

The woman tuts, but her expression remains fond. “Now don’t you go taking liberties, Arthur Morgan. We pull our weight around here, we can’t all go taking days off like that just because of a bump or two,” she warns, plucking the clothing from his hands. 

He manages a smile and a light chuckle. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he promises. 

“Well see that you do.” She rests a hand briefly on his arm. “And for goodness sake roll up those sleeves, it’s far too hot in this accursed swamp. If you collapse I’ll make sure you’re left for the gators.” 

“Noted, ma’am,” he rumbles, withdrawing from her hold with a polite tip of his hat which has her smiling and shooing him off. 

Arthur gratefully retreats. 

* * *

Arthur figures, all things considered, he does a decent job of playing the whole incident off as an unusual but brief hiccup in the established order of things.

He counters any expressions of concern with an indulgent laugh and dismissive hand gesture or two. Worried stares he pointedly overlooks. He keeps his head down and does his part: hauling sacks of maize and haybales, hunting close to camp, and spending hours at a time grooming and fussing Fen until the horse irritably avoids him. And so what if he hasn’t been around the campfire or the stew pot as frequently; or readily within reach of a poker game? If his laughs seemed harsher than warranted, or he hadn’t quite brushed off the moments he’d stopped mid-sentence, or froze up when something innocuous - a touch, a word, the clinking of a belt - had brought lost, wretched memories to the surface, well....Arthur has never claimed to be a good actor.

As for not being around as often, it was simply that Shady Belle had more space to offer. Which is why he’d chosen to spend that evening at the end of the pier, away from the warm familiar ruckus at the campfire as he nursed his fourth bottle of beer that night.

He figures he did a decent job, all things considered, but it was inevitable that someone would eventually come and pry, and he’s somewhat bitter that it’s when he’s feeling particularly unguarded.

He hears the rustle of the grass several steps before the thump and clink of boots and spurs against the old planks, and he only turns his head fractionally when the stranger stops just out of his line of sight. 

“Mind if I join you?” John asks, his own beer held in a loose grip around the neck of the bottle. Arthur exhales through his nose and throws out his arm in a careless gesture, but nevertheless shuffles aside to make space for John to sit.

The younger man seats himself in silence and takes a swig from his beer, one leg hanging over the pier in a rather bold or stupid move considering the inhabitants of the river.

“So, how you ‘bin feelin’?” 

The question is getting grating in all its iterations, and Arthur sighs irritably again. 

“Fine.” 

John nods, apparently choosing to ignore the warnings Arthur was giving him. 

“I was there, y’know,” he says thoughtfully. Arthur’s brow furrows, a part of him really wishing John had taken what he’d said about the enigmatic bullshit in Valentine to heart. “When Charles brought you in,” John clarifies, and Arthur frowns, because he couldn’t remember seeing John, or hearing him, at least, because he hadn’t been able to see very much of anyone. “I know something ain’t right, Arthur.”

Arthur snorts, fighting back the immediately defensive response that wants to claw its way up his throat in the form of a snarl. 

“People are overthinkin’ this whole thing, I’ve been roughed up plenty times before,” he dismisses, not expecting the intensity of the look John levels at him.

“Even when you’ve had your ass kicked, you ain’t never been like this,.”

“And what is _this?”_ he shoots back, trying to keep his voice low so as not to draw attention to them. 

“The hidin’, an’ all these baths you’ve been takin’. You’ve been quieter than usual, pacing half the night, distracted. Even Dutch has noticed. And I haven’t seen you smile proper _once_ since you’ve been back,” John lists off, almost dropping his beer as he pointedly counts off his fingers before thinking to use the other hand. 

Arthur swallows, uncertain if he has truly been so transparent or if John has just been particularly perceptive. 

“It’s none of your business,” He says, low and dangerous. John makes an exasperated noise, banging the heel of his bottle on the pier.

“Goddamn it, Morgan. Something’s clearly fucked you up but you won’t _talk_ to anyone. They’re worried, damn it!” John presses.

“It’s _my_ problem!”

“I just want to fuckin' help, you asshole!” He grabs Arthur’s shoulder, and just like that Arthur snaps with a snarling hiss.

 _“Don’t fucking touch me!”_

He lashes out, knocking the offending arm away with such ferocity that he catches the bottle and sends it flying from John’s hand. It shatters with a sharp and piercing sound, silencing the voices around the distant campfire.

“You okay over there?” Lenny calls after a moment, and John grimaces, not wanting to lure any of the more curious bastards over.

“Just takin’ a piss, dropped my bottle,” he yells back, hearing a couple snorts in reply. 

Seconds later the voices pick up again and John releases the breath he’d been holding. Turning back to Arthur, he finds the older outlaw looking more exhausted than he’s ever seen him, the anger burnt out as quick as it had come.

John sighs, contemplating if he should leave when Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose and seems to fold in on himself.

“I was on my way back here from St Denis that night, heading through the bayou.” Arthur murmurs, breaking the weighted silence. “Heard a woman crying and left the path like a goddamn fool, thinkin’ maybe I could help.” He huffs, shaking his head. “I found her, ‘ventually, kneeling in the mud, torch beside her, howlin’ like she was half mad.”

“Trap?” John asked, distractedly running his thumbnail back and forth over his thigh

“‘Course,” Arthur grunted. “Night Folk. Was like the creepy bastards appeared from nowhere, all silent like. Spooked my horse somethin’ rotten and I lost the big bastard.” He was frowning, but his voice could never be anything but fond when referring to his surly beast of a mount. “Got a bit sliced up, gave me a good beatin’ too. Think I was lucky to get away-” he cuts off with a wry snort that John doesn’t understand. 

Arthur’s voice suddenly drops; quieter, rougher. “I was pretty messed up,” he admits. “Was just staggerin’ blind through the dark and the mud, wonderin’ if a gator was gonna get me, when I saw the light through the trees.”  
  
He starts to speak with more consideration, the words coming slow and careful. “A feller was on the porch of this shack, saw me, invited me in for food. Didn’t think I had many options.” 

Arthur releases a long uneven breath, “I was stupid.” 

He feels John shift and coil with a growing sense of trepidation beside him.

“He knocked me out as soon as I was in the door, and…” the word sticks in his throat, sharp and barbed as if it’s hooked itself into the very flesh of his windpipe. It’s not a word that’s meant to be applied to men, especially not to men like him. Men weren’t meant to be the victims. 

“Arthur?” John breathes. He sounds uneasy, Arthur thinks.

“...I think I was raped,” he confesses, voice rough and thick. He takes a long swig of beer to distract himself from the sickening jolt his stomach gives at the admission, the way his mind screams to claw it all back and bury it deep deep down in the darkest crevice of himself that he can find. He doesn’t look at John, but wonders if the man’s expression is contorted with disbelief or disgust, if he’s rooted to the spot by macabre fascination or on the brink of walking away and never looking back. 

“That...that’s a hell of a thing to be unsure of, don’t you think?” John sounds uncertain even as he says it, and it’s not the question Arthur had anticipated. He takes another mouthful of beer, absently noting the bottle feels decidedly light, yet Arthur doesn’t feel anywhere near drunk enough to be revealing this new broken and jagged part of himself.

“Don’ remember a lot of it,” he mumbles. “Bits an’ pieces been comin’ back. He said I struggled, but I don’ remember any of that. Mostly him talkin’, some sounds. But more...more came back after... things I wish I could forget again.”

It had been the washcloth coming away with blood and spend that had done it, the memories hitting him like a physical blow as hazy glimpses and sensations rushed to the forefront of his mind to couple with the aches and pains. The teeth biting into his shoulder, leaving possessive bruises and a spattering of scars to remember the stranger by. The cold unyielding grip of the shackles keeping his arms stretched taught above his head. The chains rattling as he was turned over and pressed into dirty, foul-smelling sheets. The hot press of skin. And finally the sickening dread and merciful bouts of unconsciousness that left him withered and deadened throughout it all. 

“I woke up in the swamp don’ know how many hours later.” He let out a humourless chuckle. “Might not have even made it back if Fen hadn’t found me...” 

He’s acutely aware of the thick and uncomfortable silence that settles between them as he trails off.

“Jesus, Arthur,” John croaks. Movement draws Arthur’s eye, and it’s John’s hands curling into fists atop his lap. Arthur turns away, squeezing his bottle in a white-knuckle grip. 

“It’s done,” he mutters.

“Done?” John repeats, appalled. “Don’t you want to find this sick bastard? Aren’t you _angry?”_

Arthur pauses, mulling over the question. Is he angry? 

Yes. 

He can feel it even now, fuelled by shame and resentment - the deep simmering rage at constant war with another part of him, a part of him that is simply too tired and beaten down to consider seeking revenge. Or would it be justice? Was he even entitled to such a sentiment with the life he has lived, walking on the wrong side of the law at near every opportunity? 

In the end it didn’t matter. They had other problems - bigger problems - and Arthur would rather take a bullet than let his own foolishness hinder the gang’s quickly slimming chances of freedom. 

“John, I need a favour.” The sudden turn in conversation is jarring, and he can see John’s face scrunch up in confusion. 

“‘Course, anything,” he offers readily, and Arthur smiles despite himself, as small as the smile is.

“I’m gonna hate myself in the morning,” he says honestly, “probably gonna hate you too, but I don’t want you to ever mention this again.”

“Bu-” 

He cuts off any protests with a hard glare. “I’m asking very little of you, Marston,” he points out gruffly. 

The return to his last name seems to jar the inert cogs in John’s skull back into action, and his lips draw into a thin line. 

“Alright,” he mutters. 

Arthur presses his still partially full beer into John’s hand with a satisfied nod and gets to his feet with only a lingering stiffness. 

“I’ll hold you to that,” is the last thing Arthur says as he walks back along the pier, leaving John in troubled silence as he vanishes inside the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to show how this experience affected Arthur, especially with it being so fresh, without it making him seem like a delicate broken shell, so I'd love to know if I struck that balance!
> 
> Comments are greatly appreciated, and concrit is welcome (:


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  **Warning for semi-graphic description of mutilated corpse towards the end.**  
> 

Arthur jolts up in bed the next morning with a rush of anger, quickly overridden by the wave of mortification that follows close behind. 

“That bastard,” he mutters, swinging his feet to the floor. He rubs his face wearily, his palm rough against the lingering tenderness of his black eye that was now fading to a mottled brown. “You idiot,” he grumbles to himself in the next breath, eventually pushing himself to his feet to retrieve the bucket of water waiting outside his door. 

He washes with a newly ingrained thoroughness, reckoning even Miss Grimshaw would confess to never seeing him this clean. Yet no matter how frequently he seems to wash, it always feels like he's scouring away a fresh layer of dirt from his body. Wryly, he wonders if it's even possible to scrub the memories of someone’s touch from your skin, because god, he wishes he could.

He briefly inspects the bruised patches around his wrists, and with some relief guesses it will only be a few more days before he can finally roll up his sleeves again. It has only been an additional discomfort, on top of everything else, to have fabric clinging to every nook of his body in such humid weather.

After redressing, leaving his room brings a renewed apprehension as he makes his way downstairs and into the camp. Every glance thrown his way feels like a brand. He smiles tightly as he’s bid good morning, nodding his head to Susan and Pearson who are the usual early-risers. He spares Sadie and Lenny a nod of acknowledgement as they look his way, slowly traipsing the perimeter of the camp on the last stretch of their patrol.

John appears an hour or so later, staggering from the house with a wide yawn and heading for the coffee pot. From that point on Arthur finds he can’t take his eyes off the younger outlaw. He feels the tension in his shoulders spike each time John offers someone a good morning, and his chest constrict anxiously when he’s drawn into a conversation that Arthur can’t hear. He gets caught watching several times, whenever John happens to glance his way by chance or design, and each time he has to remember to glare before jerking his head away while pretending to busy himself.

The tension starts to finally bleed away come the afternoon, when Arthur doesn’t detect any shift within the camp or whispers outwith the ordinary gossip. It’s with relief he reasons that John must have kept his word to let the unsavoury knowledge of Arthur’s experience die just between them, but his attentiveness brings with it a sour realisation.

Arthur had fooled no one. 

It shouldn’t come as a surprise, because Arthur would be the last to claim any acting talent, but it brings a loathesome feeling of exposure with it. He knows he didn’t really try hard enough; didn’t push through the pain of the injuries, didn’t hide the effects of the ordeal deep enough, didn’t rise up with the heat of vengeance burning in his gut like he should have. 

But it’s done, and all Arthur can think to do is what he’s been doing up until this point anyway; go through the motions of being ok until he can finally convince himself he is.

Shrugging the haybale off his shoulder and dusting the loose straw from his shirt, Arthur withdraws his journal from his satchel. It’s a familiar action and a comforting weight in his hand as he glances around for a good place to settle. He ops to sit against the base of the empty gazebo, facing the horses and the warm afternoon sun. 

With the book propped on his outstretched legs, Arthur opens the journal and thumbs through the pages to his last entry. His hand stills, lips turning down into a puzzled frown. The last page is a mess of dark heavy scores over an equally messy scrawl of thoughts he doesn’t remember writing. There’s dried droplets smudging some of the scribbles - alcohol, perhaps - and Arthur doesn’t doubt this was an attempt to scratch away the late-night drunken ramblings of a sad and angry man. 

Despite himself, Arthur skims the passage and manages to find the one line still legible in the mess of desperate marks. His stomach turns unpleasantly.

_His name was_ _ SONNY. _

Something comes loose in his mind, fragments that piece together the man’s disfeatured face and bring it to the forefront as if Arthur’s seeing him before his very eyes, warped as the image is with splintered awareness and the hollow feeling of being gutted. Dark eyes sitting too close together, unblinking and glinting in the meagre lamp light. An askew jaw setting his mouth at too much of an angle as it hangs agape through grunting, panting breaths in response to Arthur’s own feeble groans. 

His skin crawls and it feels like he’s once again coated in a thick layer of filth.

 _“Damn it,”_ he hisses, ripping the page out and crushing it in his fist. His head knocks back against the wooden slats of the gazebo with enough force that it momentarily stuns him, and upon recapturing his breath, he contemplates doing it again. But his common sense catches back up with him as he brushes the thought away with a snort. “You’ve really hit a new low, thinking of bludgeoning yourself. Stupid fool…”

With a tired sigh, he skims the area in front of him, stopping with a prickle of embarrassment when he spots John on guard duty nearby, watching him with a frown. 

“You’re meant to be watchin’ the trees, Marston, not me,” he barks, almost disappointed when John sighs irritably and looks away. A scrap would certainly be a welcome distraction. 

“Hey, hey Morgan!”

He starts as Bill calls out to him, approaching from the direction of the stewpot. Arthur blows out a frustrated breath at the interruption, but waves a hand for Bill to proceed despite being in no mood to socialise.

“What d’you want, Bill.”

“I met an interestin’ feller in the swamp. _Real_ interestin’,” the man informs him in a tone that sounds too keen for Arthur’s liking.

“Did you now?” Arthur responds, not bothering to look interested as he turns back at his journal, running his finger down the ragged snags of torn paper protruding between the blank pages.

“Suuuure.” Bill draws out the word.. “He seemed to know all about you - I mean,” he clears his throat. “ _All_ about you.”

It suddenly feels like he’s back up in the mountains, cold biting to his very core and frost crawling through his veins.

“Whu-Get out of here!” He snaps, and Bill’s face slackens with confusion. 

“What’s got yo-”

“I said, _get the fuck out of here!”_ he snarls. 

Bill rears back, and Arthur doesn’t notice the defensive edge beneath the man’s surly burst of anger. “Y’know, Morgan, maybe you could try swapping out that stick up your ass for something else again!”

Arthur snarls and clambers to his feet, but Bill is already beating a hasty retreat back into the safety of camp. Arthur feels sick to his stomach, rage blistering beneath his skin in a disorientating cocktail of emotions. He doesn’t know why he looks back at John, but he does so to find the man watching him, brows furrowed in concern.

Picking up his journal from the ground, Arthur storms away.

**\---**

It’s later that evening, whilst he’s loitering on the porch in the waning daylight, watching the people gathered around the campfire, that Hosea finds him. He sets his empty bowl down on one of the chairs before joining Arthur, following his gaze to the folk enjoying their evening.

“I must say, Pearson really outdid himself with the food tonight, what was it again, gumbo?” Hosea queries. Arthur hums his agreement, folding his arms and leaning against one of the thick timber pillars. 

“Yeah, had me go digging out crayfish with him. Then decided to bait some gators.”

Hosea nods with a thoughtful sound. “He did mention asking you, said you looked like you needed something to keep your hands busy. And, of course, you would be the one most likely to sacrifice yourself to a gator if need be.” 

“Thankfully it didn’t come to that. Pearson can move surprisingly fast with the right motivation,” Arthur smirks, and they share a quiet laugh. It tapers off into a comfortable silence until Hosea gestures to the others.

“Why don’t you join them?” 

Arthur huffs, shifting his weight but remaining against the pillar. “I dunno, jus’ not been in the mood for company,” he mutters. Hosea nods in understanding.

“It’s not gone unnoticed, but they’re trying their best to respect your privacy.” 

Arthur frowns, quietly muttering ‘Hosea’ in the tone he reserved solely for when Hosea was fineangling. 

“I’m not going to ask, Arthur, although I would hope you know by now that you can come to me about anything.” He heaves an exaggerated sigh. “But, I respect that you are as private as you are occasionally dim-witted. I don’t hold it against you.”

Arthur snorts, an amused rumble rolling from the depths of his chest. Hosea pats his bicep. “I don’t know what’s going on, but don’t be too hard on yourself, Arthur. You’ve always had a penchant for self-flagellation when you close yourself off like this, and I don’t imagine it’s gotten any better with age, ‘cause like hell anything else has. So go, at least be miserable in company,” the elder orders, playful shooing Arthur in direction of the others. 

Arthur grumbles but does as he’s told, unable to fully stifle the smile that curls the edges of his mouth. 

He joins just as Karen slaps her knee and rounds off a story, sending the assembled group into peals of laughter. 

“Evenin’,” he greets them.

“Arthur!” The assortment of surprised and gleeful shouts of his name stir a warmth in him Arthur isn’t expecting, and he drops down onto one of the free camping stools when he’s ordered to sit. 

“Good to have you with us, brother,” Javier welcomes him from his spot, cross-legged on the floor. John, who perches on a crate to Arthur’s right, silently offers him a beer, which Arthur takes with a brief nod. Lenny sits on the ground to Javier’s left, while the ladies line the log with Kieran squeezed bashfully between Karen and Mary-Beth. He feels a firm pat to his back as Charles passes behind him to stand just on the edge of the circle. 

He holds his bottle up briefly in a grateful salute to the group as he takes a drink and lets the renewed conversation wash over him. Mary-Beth is red-faced and partway through an anecdote about accidently pick-pocketing erotic photos from a man’s coat in St Denis when someone else joins them at the fire.

Arthur doesn’t bother to look up from his drink until Lenny makes a surprised noise.

“Sakes, Bill, what happened to your face?” 

Arthur’s eyes snap up to Bill who sits opposite him across the fire, expression thunderous and cheek darkening with a bruise that can’t be more than a few hours old. 

“None of your business, kid,” Bill snaps. Lenny puts up his hands in a placating gesture as Karen rolls her eyes.

“Lay off him, Bill, he was just voicin’ what we were all thinkin’” She shoots back, and the man grumbles under his breath. Arthur’s attention shifts over Bill’s shoulder when another figure draws close from beneath the nearby tree, the blade of a knife glinting in the firelight as it’s tucked away. 

“If it isn’t Bill Williamson, my good friend,” Micah says with a grin that’s all teeth and opportunity. Arthur glances to the side, meeting John’s eye who looks similarly bemused. 

“What do you want, Micah?” Bill asks sharply, eyes narrowed with suspicion. 

Micah, like Lenny, holds up his hands in a placating gesture, rolling his wrists as he hurriedly reassures Bill with an easy “Nothing nothing.” It’s said with the least convincing smile Arthur has ever witnessed, and he’s conversed with some real snakes in his time. “I was just curious, really. I couldn’t help notice that you and Morgan, our ever stoic protector, had a rather _lively_ conversation earlier. You can’t blame a man for wondering what that might have been about, hm?” 

Micah spares Arthur a fleeting smug look, and Arthur’s shocked stare hardens into a glower as he resists the temptation to shove his bottle down the bastard’s throat. He turns sharply to Bill, but is surprised to find the man glaring at Micah just as ferociously. He can see the exact moment Micah notices too. 

“That ain’t none of your business,” Bill says firmly, and Micah snorts.

“That’s where you’re wrong, cowpoke. If it puts my life on the line, then it _is_ my business.” He sweeps out an arm, addressing the campfire at large. “Now, I’m sure you’ve all been _real_ delicate and respectful of our dear Morgan’s _feelings,_ but we all know he’s been moping about the place like a fresh light-skirt who’s had all her pretty little dreams shattered by her first john. I don’t know about you, but I want the guy watching _my_ back to be ready and _focused_.”

“I’d be more willing to put a knife in your back than watch it, Micah,” Arthur growls, grip tightening around the neck of his bottle. 

MIcah sneers, looking around the campfire. “Ain’t anyone else curious?” He goads, expecting to see a tide of wavering faces. 

“No sir,” Kieran declares, causing an impressed stir amongst the group. Kieran didn’t address anyone so directly, least of all Micah. 

“Ain’t no business of ours,” Lenny affirms, followed by murmured agreement from Javier, Tilly, and Mary-Beth. Karen hoots a boisterous and tipsy ‘Aye aye!’ over the top of them in support. 

“I think you have your answer, Micah,” Charles says from behind Arthur, and he doesn’t need to turn around to know Charles will be looming ominously in the deep-set shadows and glimpses of firelight. 

“Well, we’ll see how that works out for you all in the end,” Micah bites, a weak parting shot as he’s forced to retreat from the fire. 

“What a fool,” Charles mutters darkly, making John snort.

“Aren’t fools meant to be funny? He’s just a prick,” John replies, lip curling.

“Hey now, pricks have their uses, he’s just a snake” Karen argues devilishly, sparking a fresh bout of laughter. Arthur chuckles along as they descend into a new game, draining his beer as he lets the conversation carry on for a bit longer before taking his leave. 

He only gets as far as the chuckwagon before he’s stopped but an unexpected voice.

“Hey, Morgan, wait,” Bill calls after him, coming to his side in a few wide steps. 

“What you want, Williamson?” 

“Now you don’t need to be like that,” Bill protests, “I just-” he stops and glances around, catching Arthur offguard with his show of caution. Without warning Bill strides past him towards the far side of the house, beckoning Arthur to follow.

Releasing a long-suffering sigh, Arthur does so, adjusting his hat as he rounds the corner and leans his shoulder against the building, looking at Bill expectantly.

“Now, I want to, I mean, I don’t _want to_ , per say, but I feel like I- I mean it’s come to my attention that I might have gotten the- the wrong end of the stick. N-not that I’m talking about what I said earlier. I didn’t mean that- well, I mean I did mean it, but that’s not what I mean _now-”_

Arthur sighs in annoyance. “Spit it out, Bill, and think very carefully about what you’re sayin’ before you say it,” he warns.

There’s a moment of silence before Bill manages to work up the nerve to try again, radiating the same wariness as if he were tiptoeing around a sleeping bear. “Now, I don’t know nothin’ for sure, but I think I misunderstood our conversation, an- and I got angry when I shouldn’t’ve. I- anyway I’m sorry, and I won’t say nothin’ about anythin’,” he swears, nodding resolutely. 

Arthur rubs the back of his neck, unsure how to respond to the unquestionably sincere apology. “A’right,” he says at last, “make sure you don’t,” he warns, though it lacks any real threat. He makes a shooing motion and Bill, pleased with himself, beams and vanishes back towards the crates of alcohol. 

Taking a moment to process the conversation, he wanders back to the corner of the house, looking for John who he finds still sitting at the campfire. He doesn’t have to wait long for him to glance in Arthur’s direction, having no doubt seen him disappear with Bill. He gives his chin a short jerk, signalling the younger man over. Murmuring a half-formed excuse to the people remaining around the fire, John approaches not a moment later.

He’s leaning with his back against the side of the house, arms folded across his chest, when John turns the corner. 

“Everything alright?” John asks.

“Did you hit Bill?” 

John pauses, but doesn’t look surprised by the question. 

“No,” he answers with an almost imperceptible glance to the side. Arthur’s jaw ticks with a flicker of pressure.

“John.”

“I didn’t! Not...not technically,” he argues, and Arthur throws up a hand with a roll of his eyes.

“And what does that mean, exactly? ‘Not technically’?” He huffs.

John shifts his weight, frowning and refusing to meet Arthur’s eyes when admits “Charles did it.”

“You told Charles?!” Arthur hisses. 

“No! Christ, Arthur, ‘course not. I’m not gonna just go spreadin’ shit around, you know that,” he argues, a note of hurt almost lost amongst the offense. Arthur stubbornly refuses to acknowledge the sliver of shame he feels for his accusation. 

“Then why-”

“Charles is a good guy. He don’t need to know all the details, as long as he knows he’s doin’ something for the right reason or the right person. Barely had to say anything at all for him to agree,” John assures, still looking petulant.

Arthur breathes out a frustrated breath. 

“Was Bill given’ you trouble?”

“Nah, he apologised,” Arthur grunts. 

“Huh,” is all John has to say in response, looking surprised. 

“John, listen,” Arthur says quietly, fixing John with a heavy stare. “I just want this to be put to rest. It’s done.” 

He doesn’t wait for John’s reply. Brushing past him, Arthur leaves his words hanging in the air behind him.

* * *

Over the next few days, Arthur redoubles his efforts to recapture the ease and confidence with which he’d simply existed before everything had been knocked off-kilter.

The routine of chopping wood, brushing down the horses, having mindless conversations around the coffee pot, and finally rolling up his sleeves against the infernal heat, all help to slowly seal the unseen wounds left gaping inside of him. Though Arthur doesn’t doubt the scars left behind will be puckered and ugly. Fitting, perhaps. 

But the tension never truly goes away, no matter how much Arthur wills it. There are the nights he wakes up drenched in a cold sweat, and the intrusive thoughts that put him back in that cabin when his mind is unguarded. The comments that make him inwardly flinch, or words that touch too close to that peculiar voice crooning at him in a haze of partial consciousness. The times when he feels dirty in a way he can’t explain, but it makes him want to scour his skin until it’s bleeding and raw all the same.. It’s exhausting, and frustrating, and Arthur wonders if he’ll ever be the same again. A realistic part of him accepts that he won’t. 

He’s sitting on the steps of the gazebo, ruefully contemplating these thoughts, when John calls out to him. Arthur looks up and nods his head in acknowledgement to the man as he approaches.. 

“Dunno where you’ve been hidin’, but Dutch has been lookin’ for you. He ain’t happy,” Arthur says in lieu of a greeting when John gets close, and the younger scoffs.

“Ain’t no way he’s gonna be happy with me any time soon, I can’t do anything right in his eyes right now,” John returns with a frown. Arthur snorts.

“You ain’t never done anything’ right before neither,” Arthur smirks, and John rolls his eyes.

“Yeah yeah, shut up,” he grumbles. “Anyway, I need you to saddle up, we gotta head out.” 

Arthur cocks a brow in question. “Oh yeah?” he asks, but rises without further direction, following John to their hitched horses. With a quick check of the girth strap, he hauls himself onto the tower shire, leading Fen onto the path with a twitch of the reins. 

“So what’re we doin’?” Arthur enquires as they ride out, the low golden sun giving the southern landscape an almost ethereal atmosphere as it filters through the mangroves.

“Just checking out a place,” John replies without elaborating further, and Arthur rolls his eyes. He doesn’t bother to push for more details, knows and trusts John enough to believe he won’t let him ride blind into potential danger. So he’s content to bide his time and enjoy the ride, even as they cross the river into the looming swamps of Lemoyne.

The air is thick with moisture and heat even this late in the day, and the bugs are a constant irritation, but Arthur hasn’t been out on a longer ride in near a week, and he can feel Fen beneath him taking advantage of the chance to properly stretch his legs again. 

The sun has almost set by the time John leads them off the boardwalk that made up the last stretch of path to St Denis, and Arthur dutifully follows. In the distance, bathed in the last hues of pink and purple light, Arthur can just make out the obscure little structure of the tiny church through the trees as they proceed further south. 

If John wasn’t looking around so keenly for markers and significant landmarks to guide him, it would have felt like an aimless wander through the marsh. But as darkness quickly settles around them, Arthur can’t help feel bothered by the lack of information and ensuing silence between them, made only worse by the fact Arthur didn’t like the swamps at the best of times during the day.

He’s cautious of gators lurking at the edges of the water, and the shrill whine of the cicadas has his nerves on edge. There’s also something familiar and unsettling about the way the lights of St Denis glint across the marsh, but Arthur can’t put his finger on it until John reins Old Boy to a sudden stop.

“Was this the place?”

That’s when Arthur notices the still smoldering remains of a shack. It takes him a moment to place it, his eyes drawn to the messy furrows in the mud, barely visible in the low light. The tread of his own boots imprinted in the mire as he’d scrambled desperately through the bushes to happen upon the man. 

His stomach clenches and his throat suddenly feels tight with the realisation of where he’s been led.

“John,” Arthur growls, voice dangerously low. 

John shifts in the saddle, silent for a moment before he looks over his shoulder at Arthur. “Was this the place?” he insists, equally quiet, but in a tone that is neither impatient or threatened. 

Arthur’s shoulders sag tiredly. When did he become so exhausted by everything?

“Yes,” he bites outs. He doesn’t know how he feels, doesn’t know what it means to him to see this place and its vile secrets burnt to cinders. 

John nods, satisfied, and sits back around in his saddle. 

“Good. I didn’t think there’d be many creeps out here offering free meals or looking to show off their skull collection, but you never know.”

Arthur’s head snaps up in surprise. “You did this?”

John hesitates, glancing at Arthur over his shoulder again. “I know you said to drop it, but goddamn it, Arthur. It ain’t right, to pretend it didn’t happen, you deserve more than that, closure or, or _somethin’._ ” He releases a frustrated noise. “And that bastard deserved everything that was coming to him. Bill said where I might find him and...I just couldn’t sit and do nothin’,” he mutters, and it’s as close to an apology as Arthur knows he’s going to get. 

He doesn’t know what to say at that moment, but John nudges Old Boy forward and Fen immediately follows

They stop at the edge of the water behind the burnt debris, the water eerily still, though there was most certainly danger lurking just beneath the surface. Arthur could see the glint of at least a dozen pairs of gator eyes amongst the bushes and reeds alone. 

“I wanted you to have your revenge, but when I got my hands on him, the shit he said... I-I just couldn’t stop,” he growls, and Arthur follows John’s gaze up to the thickest branch of a tall tree stretching over the water. From the branch dangled a noose, and from that the remains of a body. The lower half had been completely ripped away, the remnants of the skin and entrails from the stomach hanging in tattered ribbons. 

Now he understood why so many gators seemed drawn here; they were waiting for the rest of their meal dangling just out of reach. Even though the upper body seemed relatively intact, it’s with unexpected relief that Arthur notes the face is badly beaten to the point of being unrecognisable, although the offset jaw is still unmistakable. 

“You beat him.”

“Until he couldn’t beg no more,” John confirms in a low, steady tone.

Arthur mulls over his next question, but a part of him wants to know. “Was he still alive, when you strung him up there?”

John tilts his head, lip curling into a sneer at the memory. “He weren’t for long, but long enough.” 

Arthur nods as if satisfied, and he finds that a part of him actually is. His attacker was dead and Arthur had the evidence of his last moments of suffering dangling before him. He knows he should scold John, for ignoring his wishes and also wasting time running around the swamp rather than prioritising the needs of the gang, but he finds that he can’t. Instead, he unholsters his pistol.

With a single shot, he shreds through the rope, and the distant echo of gunfire is overwhelmed by the splash of the body hitting the water. In an instant, the alligators swarm, slithering into the water from the banks and rising from the murky depths. The water froths and swells in their frenzy, and the two men watch on impassively, their horses shifting with unease at the sight. 

Eventually the water settles again, returning to a calm, unbroken sheet of moonlight. The sounds of the swamp take over, and it’s like nothing had ever taken place.

“I’m sorry,” John murmurs after a time, chipping into the heavy silence. “For taking that from you.”

Arthur huffs out a dry facsimile of a laugh. “Revenge is a fool’s game,” he mutters, turning Fen away from the water, back the way they’d come. He doesn’t immediately spur the horse away, however. 

“John.”

The younger man looks at him and they regard each other in a way that’s both solemn and understanding.

“Thank you,” Arthur says quietly. 

John straightens, a small relieved smile playing on his lips. “‘Course. I’ve got your back, Arthur. Always” 

Arthur nods but doesn’t have anything left to say. 

“C’mon,” he murmurs, waiting until John falls in line with him before he guides them back towards the path. The burnt out shell of the cabin and the shorn rope dangling from the tree are left behind them, the only evidence remaining of what had transpired there. And soon that would be claimed by the rot, swallowed up by the swamp’s enduring hunger, until nothing at all remained except the memories.

Arthur doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, don't get me wrong, I absolutely high-tailed it back to Sonny ingame and beat the crap out of him (several times, in fact!), so I hope no one is disappointed that Arthur didn't do the actual killing, but I feel like Arthur very much believes in his saying that revenge is for fools. John carrying it out though? That's sweet sweet justice.
> 
> I also had to reevaluate my initial approach to Bill in this scenario as I happened to read a really interesting analysis in a youtube comment which completely changed how I understood the scene and Bill in that situation.
> 
> As always, comments are greatly appreciated <3


End file.
